Issue 11
Roam
Janet I. Buck
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The Emerald Woods
It's hard to see you amble here
locked tight in aging's body jail --
steel bars to block your view,
the moon a dwindling square of soap.
A ranch in blankets, velvet dust,
wild throes of emerald woods
still calling owls,
noises of the grappling trees.
I show you scrapbooks in my hands;
pages stick as if the script
were meant to find the final page.
Carrots of my fingertips
turn limp and old
as memories grow heavy here.
Lips still ramble. Eyes still roam.
A hospital gown in faded gray
sags on sorry puppet strings.
Your favorite horse is in the barn --
a stallion scratching crusted hay,
begging for his saddle back.
Our noses catch the leather scent.
You ask me if we're headed home.
I pull the drapes, pat your arm,
find the bonsai skeleton
I hope I watered with my love.
I need a prayer to halt this wind
that claws at fixed eternity.
Why can't endings curl up
to renaissance the way
a smile retrieves a frown.
Teardrops sweat on ivory palms.
Any grave of any size at any hour
would gut the going gegenschein
I am just a hunting dog
wishing autumn's river warm.
~Janet I. Buck
Janet I. Buck is a five-time Pushcart Nominee and the author of four collections of poetry. In 2002-2003, her work is scheduled to appear in CrossConnect, Artemis, Offcourse, Zuzu's Petals Quarterly, and dozens of journals world wide. Email.
© 2003 by Janet I. Buck. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.